Jon Ureña's Blog, page 10

Life update (02/06/2025)

[check out this post on my personal page, where it looks better]

Last night I had a vivid dream in which I went to Africa for reasons. This part of the continent was made out of irregular “islands” of cement amid murky-green waters. No idea why I had to cross to the other side, but in any case I saw myself in third person trying to sneak my way over there without alerting the wildlife. Suddenly I spotted a bear. My brain had apparently forgotten that you’re unlikely to come across bears in Africa, and I found myself having to escape from the beast until a crocodile or something alike interrupted us and started chasing the bear. At some point I found myself pursued by the bear again. My dream self, in fight-or-flight, had the bright idea of trying to swim across a considerable span of murky-green water. I saw myself in third person as I hurried along, only to end up tugged by something, then pulled underwater. The dream camera stayed still, aimed at the spot, as if I would surface again, but I didn’t. I ended up waking up spontaneously while feeling quite disturbed. I checked out my phone; it was exactly two in the morning.

First of all, brain, thank you for the warning: if I ever find myself in Africa, I’ll try not to swim across clearly crocodile-infested waters. Was it worth making me feel such distress at night that I couldn’t go back to sleep? Thankfully I spent from two to six in the morning writing. And what is it with regularly waking up from vivid dreams at two and three in the morning? Am I actually haunted? We’ve existed as anatomically modern humans for like two hundred thousand years, yet dreams are still complete mysteries. The only possible inspiration I see for that dream is that the water of Irún’s Bidasoa River, at the spot I visited to research a scene of my current novel, looked quite murky. Anyway, I hope I don’t get eaten by beasts. That must be one of the worst deaths.

I’ve been reading Cormac McCarthy’s Suttree, released back in 1979. McCarthy is the writer I respect the most, but Suttree got started before he met who ended up becoming the love of his life (to many people’s chagrin due to her age), and both what happens in most of the book as well as what seemed to be McCarthy’s attitude to writing back then felt to me quite profligate. That adjective, which comes quick to the tongue of Roman Empire cosplayers, doesn’t entire encompass what I mean: Suttree is mostly episodic or anecdotal, featuring many secondary characters from McCarthy’s youth that are often poorly introduced if at all. Many of the anecdotes involve McCarthy’s stand-in Suttree chasing alcohol and getting in all sorts of trouble, which the writer used to do in his youth. The story feels like McCarthy had struggled to do many different things with the same manuscript throughout the nearly ten years he worked on it. The writing is godlike at many parts, but it’s consistently and conspicuously densest in the first six percent of the story or so, as if McCarthy had set himself to write the entire book by that standard, only to give up that notion lest he ended up rage-quitting. My favorite part so far, and likely the best part given that I’m at 80%, involves a girl with developed breasts but that the protagonist keeps referring to as a child. Such tragedy.

Well, I guess that’s all I felt like saying at the moment. I’m in the process of writing the sixth part of my new novel The Scrap Colossus and it’s going great as far as I’m concerned; always looking forward to spend more time there.

Trash in a Ditch, Pt. 13 (Fiction)

[check out this part on my personal page, where it looks better]

Minutes passed as I fixed my gaze on the machine parts. The universe had shrunk to the view of these objects that entered from the left out of one darkness and departed to the right into another. If I were to lift my head, I would confirm that I was surrounded by human beings—owners of those reeks of tobacco and sweat, of the heavy breathing, the throat-clearings, and the machine-gun drumming of a drum kit leaking from a pair of headphones. I felt suffocated watching them interact, forced to acknowledge their existence, though if they were struck down in an instant, I would simply take a deep breath and relax.

Someone called for a break to pee. Absent-mindedly, I tilted my head and noticed the flash of a purple work coat. Behind me, footsteps passed; another person of the myriad who tainted most spots where I fixed my gaze.

I shuddered. A feverish burning overwhelmed me. I wished I could free myself from having to see any of these people. I wished I had never known their faces and voices. I needed to cleanse myself of the presence of other human beings, a deep scrubbing with brushes, as if in a decontamination chamber.

Over the years, too many years, memories had piled up until one day they would drip from my nostrils in clumps. And why had I exposed myself to such experiences? To end up manipulating these machine parts. Artificial organs to fill some machine. The dignity of any human being deserved a better job than one for which, someday, a robot would be employed. And in exchange for what? I clung to my hovel, a place for which I would say yes to everything and mold myself to my coworkers at the risk of being fired. In what other position would they employ me? I knew how to shoot guns, but they’d require two eyes, and I’d never pass the psychiatric exam again.

If the life of any human being fell below the minimum standard of dignity, what benefit was there in living? And why did I persist, knowing myself useless and resigned to merely anticipating how my skin and flesh would sag, how my body would deteriorate until the brain or the heart finally failed? Why would I wake tomorrow for another round of this? Or of anything, because if they fired me from the workshop, I’d end up in some factory copy. I’d work in another hole, churning out absurd tasks, and in exchange pay the rent for a box with water and electricity, a box I’d forever fear losing. Yet people signed up for this farce at birth, from their very first cry. They struggled to find their niche on this rock that hurtled about a star amid an expanse of icy darkness. Night, night wherever one looked, pierced by pinpricks of light, most dead, perhaps all. What a joke it was, to exist in this universe. A lice infestation on a rock ball cleaving the void. What use was it that we could feel and understand, love and dream? We existed because of a cosmic error, a corrupted block of memory in the universe’s RAM. And so much pain, every day. Pain that piled up and piled up and piled up, never to cease.

A stream of voice crashed against my face and jolted me awake like an alarm. Héctor. The stool opposite on the table creaked as it released his weight.

“I’m stopping the line to piss. That is, as long as no whiner wants to cause trouble. No complaints? Good.”

As his footsteps receded through the workshop, they stood out amid the whir of the conveyor belts like phosphorescent footprints in the darkness.

My face had turned as cold as a corpse’s. When my right fist gripped the handle of the screwdriver, the fibers in the tendons and muscles involved creaked like a taut cable on the verge of snapping. I spun on the stool, offering Christopher my left side, and slid the screwdriver into the right pocket of my trousers. I rose while murmuring some excuse.

I marched down the corridor. My temples pounded, and my vision tinted crimson. I pushed open the bathroom door.

There, the operator with Down syndrome was peeing, leaning against one of the suspended toilets. He was humming. From the closed cubicle came the muffled, machine-gun drumming of a drum kit, and that sound barely masked the noise of a turd plunging into water.

I placed a hand on the operator’s shoulder. When he looked at me, I gestured for him to zip up, then pointed to the door. A firm pat on his shoulder sealed the message. While he continued humming, the man shook off the last droplets, zipped up, and left the bathroom. I closed the door until it clicked shut.

Héctor cleared his throat.

I drew the screwdriver from my pocket and gripped it. I took two strides to the cubicle door, and with an upward thrust, I ran the tip of the screwdriver along the gap, levering the latch. I yanked the door open.

Héctor grumbled in a mixture of a grunt and a surprised exclamation. Covering his crotch with both hands, he tugged sharply at the headphone cable, which promptly tangled around his neck. His thighs, pale in contrast to his face, were covered in black hair, sporting a several-day-old beard. A sight to be ashamed of, as if discovered while playing with dolls.

I brandished the tip of the screwdriver a few inches from his brow, between eyes whose pupils had shrunk, and I spoke in a harsh voice that had never before left my mouth.

“You know how I amused myself during the war? I used to sacrifice dogs even hairier and uglier than you. If you mention me again, you’ll be swallowing your own shit.”

I staggered into the corridor. As boiling, bubbling tar flowed through my innards, my flesh threatened to crack under tectonic movements. If I opened my mouth, from it would burst a scream that would rip through my vocal cords—a torrent of clamor capable of disintegrating the world.

I wanted to kill Héctor. A couple of justifications would suffice, but justified or not, I would kill him simply because I wanted to, because that bastard insisted on bothering me, and I had a right to be left in peace.

I coordinated my legs to obey me on the way back to the workshop. As soon as I entered, the dozens of workers lined up would be alerted as if a werewolf had burst in. They would recognize me as unstable and dangerous, and they would fear the moment I unleashed myself. They’d forbid me from roaming nearby or remaining free.

I retraced my steps until I passed the closed bathroom door. My temples pounded. I delved down the corridor as my hand slid along the wall, and I encountered a fire exit I hadn’t known existed. I pushed the heavy door. As I passed through, it closed like the hatch of a submarine.

I emerged into the dump that served as the backyard. I circled a container, placing it between the building and myself, and when I sat against the rough metal, the shadow of a stack of boxes fell over my sneakers and the lower half of my trousers. A hot gust stirred my shirt and brushed my broken cheekbone. I removed my gloves to rub my face with my damp hands, then stowed the gloves in the pockets of my work coat. I dug into the dry earth and patted it down. When I turned my palm, clumps of dirt clung to its wrinkles.

I lay discarded, as insignificant as any of this junk. What would it matter if I died? What would be lost? One less face in that workshop I longed to forget. To avoid awkward questions, the supervisor would claim I’d quit, that I’d landed a job in another city. Inertia kept me alive, assuring me that I’d invest more effort in disappearing than in tolerating known pains, but if I ended up underground or as a dried-out corpse in the desert, nothing of value would have been lost. Nobody cared for me, and with good reason, for I was a broken piece, incapable of performing as expected; the defective article of a factory, destined to be discarded in some container because no sane person would want it.

Even so, over the years I had come to understand one vital truth: every person must discover for themselves what matters and what they truly want. One must peel away the harsh layers imposed by those who know you—the principles instilled in you, the roles assigned to you—otherwise, the mind is reduced to a goldfish swimming in its bowl, doomed to die within glass walls. I guarded that knowledge like a letter entrusted to me, though there was no recipient willing to read it.

A shadow fell over me like a blanket. To my left, two tanned legs rose adorned in the sunlight with pink, diagonal scars, and two wounds sealed with band-aids. A translucent fuzz cloaked the skin like the down on a peach. Amid cascades of unkempt hair, her wide eyes seemed intent on masking curiosity as a dog might. Caroline sat to my right. Sliding her back along the rusted container, she shed flakes of peeling paint until her disheveled hair came to rest against my cheek. She smelled of fur.

I froze and held my breath. Caroline, as if draping a garland, crossed her right arm in front of my neck, slid that hand under the collar of my shirt, and let her fingertips rest on my skin. That touch conveyed a message with a clarity no string of words could ever achieve: I, too, belong to another land I will never visit. I, too, suffer day after day, moment after moment. People either dismiss such suffering, ignore it, or convince themselves it doesn’t matter. They push it away from their minds to avoid having it sour their day. But I know it. For all that it may be worth in this moment, here in the middle of a desert, I know it too.

Caroline pressed herself against me, the edges of the objects bulging from her pocket at my side, and her warmth flowed into me through her fingertips as if I’d plugged in a power cord. A pulsating surge of pain reverberated through me. Acidic capillaries tangled in my bones like climbing plants.

How could a person contain such pain without exploding, without their very cells dissolving? And yet someone like Caroline existed: a creature who wandered the worlds her mind conjured, lost forever. My heart tore apart like rotten fruit. How could this woman possibly keep living? How did she face the world day after day without collapsing, without weeping at every conscious moment?

I would have swept her into my car and driven her to some remote forest, to the mountains, where I’d buy a secluded two-story mansion surrounded by acres upon acres of pasture and fields. Caroline would care for the horses that raced across an enclosed meadow. She’d stroll through the grass as her instincts dictated, and then never wake again.

How could someone incapable of saving himself save her?

Her fingertips slipped away from me, and before my eyes, a few stray, arched hairs drifted upward. Caroline circled the container and walked off. Her footsteps floated on the breeze, accompanied by the sound of some rolling wrapper. The hinges of the fire exit creaked as it swung open, and two seconds later the door closed like a mouth after a yawn.

The tingling subsided, and my body hair relaxed. I would rise and return to my post, enduring the remaining minutes until the horn blared.

I entered the workshop through the fire exit, and had taken only a few steps when I lifted my gaze. The supervisor and Caroline were blocking the corridor, standing by the staircase to the supervisor’s office. Caroline, her back partly turned toward me, nodded as if speaking silently, though any sounds she might have made would have been drowned out by the clamor of the production lines. The supervisor caressed her arm, smiled with genuine warmth, and nodded as if she understood anything.

I stopped. Should I wait until they cleared the way?

Both women turned their faces toward me. I tensed and swallowed hard. Caroline drifted back toward the workshop. I hurried on with my head bowed, and as I passed the supervisor I offered a greeting, but she stepped forward and grabbed my wrist.

“Come here a moment. I need to talk with you.”

She climbed half the steps and then turned like a mother duck ensuring her chick followed. Behind her eyes floated some knowledge she needed me to confront.

I cooled down, feeling damp and sticky. I ascended the stairs at the pace set by the swirling, psychedelic fabric of her attire, like a condemned man trudging to the gallows.

-----

Author’s note: this novella was originally self-published in Spanish about ten years ago. It’s contained in a collection titled Los dominios del emperador búho.

Not only I had forgotten about writing this part of the story, but I had forgotten ever having felt such despair. A good reflection of my worst times during my twenties, which were generally terrible. Although things haven’t improved that much apart from my ability to amass money, and health-wise they have even worsened, at least I take each hit far more stoically now. I’ve become a proper man, you could say.

Life update (02/03/2025)

[check out this post on my personal page, where it looks better]

Previously I mentioned that now that I’m immersed in writing a new novel, the worst part is having to waste half of the day at work. It’s worse than that, though: everything that doesn’t involve either developing the novel or actually writing it feels like it’s stealing from what I’m supposed to do. Even time itself is a threat. But yes, the biggest offender is by far my job. I’m tasked with programming the performances of local resources like consultation and operation rooms, but the mental resources that would be required to hold all those concepts at once are dedicated to the novel. My basement girl refuses to focus on anything else. I feel her complaining every time I need to drag her away from her current obsession. The struggle keeps me in an oniric daze, having to remind myself what I’m supposed to be doing instead of losing myself in my new novel, and certainly not caring a bit.

In truth, anyone with the ability to create new things should only be burdened with bringing those things to life, not keeping a day job. But you know how life goes. The whole system is set up so that two members of every household are supposed to pay for stuff. Still, most of the time they find themselves with water up to the neck, as designed. Gotta keep people tired and broke lest they start pointing fingers.

This weekend I visited one of the spots of my hometown where an upcoming scene will take place, and I felt the familiar ache that has resurged regularly these past ten years or so: I wish I could quit everything, fill a backpack with food, notebooks and pens, and start walking in some interesting direction. Once I ran out of either notebooks or pens, I’d hop on the nearest bus or train and return home. I’m reading McCarthy’s Suttree; there’s this whole godlike section in which McCarthy clearly trekked through the mountains like a hobo and almost lost his mind. That’s what a writer is supposed to do. If you die during any of your “research” trips, then that’s that, but if you survive, you are granted the ability to produce something real. Virtually none of what you live through in your average life as a worker is meaningful (I’d say it even harms your ability to recognize what’s meaningful), and that’s most of our lives going down the drain. I’m complaining in vain, but it bothers me, so I complain at least.

I’ve mentioned before how writing builds up a personal mythology made out of thoughts, moments, places, etc. That’s part of why now I consider very important to place your stories in locations you’ve actually visited. If those locations don’t hold personal meaning for you, even better. Regarding my current novel The Scrap Colossus, the bench of the riverside promenade where my narrator met Elena, the obsessive writer, will forever be meaningful to me. And the way my brain works, I can lean back against that railing, look down at that bench and feel like she’s there. There are many places in my surroundings that have become a source of fond memories, nostalgia, grief, etc. For example, some months ago I visited the neighboring town of Hondarribia, and found myself at the same spot of a slanted street, close to a church, where “I” stood in my 2021 novel My Own Desert Places and stared at Alazne’s swaying hair as she walked down toward a writing course. It made my heart ache. It aches now as I remember it. But Alazne never existed, and the painful events recorded in that novel never happened. Yet they can moisten my eyes every time I think about them. I’ve grieved far more for my own creations than for real-life “friends” who died. My brain works that way.

Well, I suppose that’s enough procrastinating before I return to my tasks. If any of you is reading my new novel, The Scrap Colossus, I hope you’re getting something out of it. I write to satisfy my basement girl, but I would be lying if I pretended that other people clicking like on my stuff doesn’t make me feel better.

Trash in a Ditch, Pt. 12 (Fiction)

[check out this part on my personal page, where it looks better]

The machine parts slid from one worker to another. I caught a sidelong glimpse of how Héctor cast a look in my direction. What was he scheming? Although post lunch break, that man often threatened to nod off out of boredom, today he had donned a pair of earmuffs like those worn by laborers wielding pneumatic hammers, and he bobbed his head to the rhythm of a drum kit’s machine-gun fire. Seated to my right, Christopher, almost as if tending to an epileptic, sent glances my way that I carefully avoided.

I focused on fitting the parts together and connecting the wires, yet Caroline’s voice ricocheted from ear to ear, conveying a coded message that I needed to decipher. As one machine part drifted away on the conveyor belt, I found myself twisting on my stool, scanning the mass of workers for that woman’s unkempt mane. I’d never bothered to find out which line she worked on, or whether the workshop had adopted her as a mascot instead. Perhaps now Caroline was gripping the supervisor by the wrist and guiding her, much like a loyal dog leading its master, toward the black hole of my trunk.

I fixed my gaze on the pieces that stalled before my hands, but in the foggy wasteland of my mind, Caroline’s presence shone like a lighthouse. The secret I should have guarded, private as my own conscience, had been split apart. That woman knew I’d killed a child, and where I hid the evidence. She had become the most important person, even though I would never understand her. She could ruin my life at her whim. And why would she save me—the strange, repulsive man who stashed a child’s corpse in his trunk?

It was only a matter of time before someone else found out. Caroline would eventually expose the secret, or I would overlook some crucial detail, and the police would be called. That domino piece stood upright with dozens more waiting in line to fall. And there I was, still in this workshop, this sweat factory, assembling piece after piece. Some droplets gathered on my face, while others slid down my back, my sides, and my chest, as a hot, stale vapor seeped through the gaps in my shirt. My skin was melting.

How had I ever believed I had the right to show up in this workshop? I’d crashed a meeting of high society. These broken people around me enjoyed their lives, even though they bore injuries and deformities that would have convinced me to shoot myself. They wanted to improve society through the hours of labor they sacrificed. They cherished meeting other broken souls, but I longed to lose them from sight. What else could one expect from a murderer parading his trophy?

While I drove screws into casings and wrestled with wires, while I blinked and squinted to define every contour, I anticipated that the parts between my fingertips would vanish. Their molecules would admit that all effort to maintain a shape was wasted, for sooner or later they’d end up in some dump.

As if wandering through the gallery of a cave in a dream, I found myself trailing my crew out to the patio. Break time had arrived. Guided by Christopher’s back, I ended up in the shade beneath a building’s eave. With numb fingers, I fumbled for the button of my lab coat pocket to extract my pack of cigarettes. I lit one up. By the third drag I confirmed that, whether by ritual or nicotine, smoking still soothed my nerves.

John—or Joseph—was eyeing Christopher’s socks as if scrutinizing a strip of toilet paper dangling from someone’s trousers. Christopher lifted his foot and wiggled it.

“What?”

“Pull them down. No one wears them like that.”

Christopher crouched and bunched his socks up against his shoes. As he straightened his long frame, he laughed cordially.

Héctor’s hands were expertly rolling strands of tobacco into paper—a dexterity he sorely lacked on the line. Gusts of hot air pushed against the gate, eliciting metallic creaks. My aching cheek—throbbing irritably like eczema—along with my dead eye, stifled any conversation the crew might have attempted to conjure in that silence.

A buzzing skimmed along the edge of my left ear as if trying to slip inside to my eardrum. I flinched and shook my free hand near that ear. The insect’s tiny black dot flitted in bursts like an intermittent radar signal, until it vanished from my sight. I crushed the cigarette butt against the dry ground, only for the mosquito’s buzz to return.

My breathing grew heavy. These bugs had survived for millions of years even though their sole purpose was to annoy everyone else. I tensed like a drawn rubber band and tracked the dancing black dot. On instinct, I slapped at my neck, and when I pulled my palms apart, I found the mosquito’s thorax and abdomen shattered, its legs broken as if pressed between two sheets of glass. I flicked it away with a sharp smack. After shaking my head, I rummaged through my pack for another cigarette.

“Your mask’s cracked,” Héctor said.

His cigarette smoldered between the stubby index and middle fingers. He faced me with the intensity of someone who believed his horse would surge ahead and win the race.

“The fuck are you talking about?” I retorted.

“Your killer face.”

I clenched my teeth—worsening the pain in my cheek—held the cigarette’s filter between my lips, and drew the lighter’s flame close.

“You see what you want to see.”

“Every time you look at us, you must start imagining hajjis. One day you’ll show up in the workshop with a semi-automatic.”

I inhaled deeply to fill my lungs with smoke, to dissuade myself from launching a counterattack. My mind was like an acne-infested face, every thought scraping against inflamed skin. Controlling myself felt like tugging on the leash of a pitbull with a chronic ear infection, all while a legion of idiots insisted I let it have its head petted.

“What have you gotten yourself into,” Héctor demanded, “that you come back for the afternoon shift with a black eye? Are you trafficking? Are you going to say some stranger beat you up just because?”

I flicked the ash from my cigarette as my toes contracted, the tips bulging. Everyone could see I was boiling with rage. Did this bastard want to die? Was he egging me on so I’d throw a couple of punches, thus giving him a pretext for self-defense? But I would need to stop my fingers and teeth from tearing his face apart like an enraged chimpanzee.

Adrenaline surged through me. I bowed my head and ordered myself to calm down. In the past I could have kept quiet and conceded the point just to be left alone; back then, I’d locked away my reactions like in a windowless house. Now, however, my anxiety and irritation lay bare. Héctor would see in those symptoms a red circle on the chest of some video game boss: a target to shoot until the boss dropped dead.

I dropped the lit cigarette at my feet, crushed it with my heel, and scrubbed it against the ground. When my gaze met Héctor’s, his eyebrows tensed.

“If I displease you,” I said, raising my voice now that I cared for every word to be heard, “then look the other way. Don’t bother me with nonsense.”

Before he could answer, I rounded the corner and slipped back into the workshop. I sat on my stool at the line and lowered my head. As I rolled the corrugated handle of my screwdriver along the conveyor belt, I strained my ear like a cat, waiting for the approaching footsteps.

From behind, Christopher’s heavy steps neared, soon joined by another’s. The stool about ten feet to my right creaked. I waited for someone to activate the line, for the conveyor belt to start moving beneath my hands, when suddenly the megaphone burst to life with a screech of static.

“Alan Kivi, please report to the supervisor’s office.”

The hair on the back of my neck stood up. As I stumbled off my stool, I had to rein myself in from running away. I tiptoed over to peer at the equipment, then shifted aside to reveal the faces of the workers that had remained hidden by the purple backs of those seated in front. Along one of the lines near the changing rooms, I recognized Caroline. Even from the far end of the workshop, I could discern that in her unkempt mane, some strands seemed to arch as if electrified, and her wide, vacant eyes watched her hands as they connected cables.

“Héctor must have gotten lost along the way,” Christopher remarked.

I turned around. The stool opposite mine was empty.

I headed down the corridor while dabbing the cold sweat from my face. A flash of heat blurred my vision. I climbed the stepped metal platform leading to the supervisor’s office, opened the door, and stood beneath the lintel.

Héctor had seated himself with his back to the door, in front of the woman’s desk. Judging by how his hair gleamed under the lamp, he must have soaked it in olive oil to style it.

The supervisor lifted herself from the armchair and leaned against the desk with both hands. After inspecting the ruin of my eye and the battered state of my cheek, she turned to Héctor while pointing at me.

“I do not forgive you for what you did.”

Héctor shifted in his chair and let out an interjection before freezing, torn between disputing the accusation and swearing his innocence.

I closed the door behind me. The air conditioner and a rotating fan chilled the office, making it resemble a refrigerator. I longed to collapse into the empty chair and let the film of sweat on my skin dry.

“Someone else hit me,” I murmured.

The supervisor sank back into her chair. I sat down as, at the edge of my vision, Héctor seethed like a boiling pot of rage.

“Who did that to you?” she asked.

I drew a deep breath and rubbed my face with my hand, careful not to disturb the wound on my cheek.

“It happened outside the workshop. It doesn’t matter.”

“What do you mean ‘it doesn’t matter’? Have you called the police?”

“I suppose you asked me to come up here for something else.”

The supervisor sighed and sized us up with a look that threatened to pin us against the wall.

“Héctor has complained about you. I want your side of the story. He says you spoke to him disrespectfully.”

Héctor concentrated on his right hand, squeezing the armrest as if he were aboard a spaceship about to take off.

The stench, both from Héctor and me, was overwhelming: rancid sweat steeped in anger and resentment, mixed with a sewer-like fetidity woven into the very stitches of my clothes. The reek of a cesspool filled the atmosphere of incense and women’s perfume, as if one of us had stepped in dog shit.

That sewer odor would be the smell of a rotting corpse. I shuddered. Did the others smell it, too? It had clung to me when I opened the trunk and Caroline tore away the transparent plastic. Would I now have to suspect that everyone recognized that corpse stench, a mark on me as indelible as the odor of my armpits?

“Alan,” the supervisor said.

I parted my lips, but before I could speak, Héctor grunted and shoved me verbally.

“Disrespecting me today has been the last straw. I have the right to feel good here, to work in peace, and this individual is preventing that.” He raised his gruff voice as he pointed at me with his thumb. “He refuses to behave like a human being. He avoids others; when you speak to him, he just stays silent. Move him to another workstation, or fire him.”

I stretched along the backrest and pressed my fingertips against my knees. I fixed my gaze on the supervisor’s eyes to prevent the anger Héctor’s look stirred in me from showing on my face.

The woman tapped the desk with a pen.

“Do you think you’re helping create a pleasant work environment by attacking Alan?”

Héctor flared his nostrils like a bull, and shifted restlessly.

“He started it.”

“Y’all are just too different. Maybe you lack any common ground. But you come here to work, and whatever annoys you about the other, you must ignore it.”

Héctor pursed his lips. Among the tufts of his black beard, small red capillaries emerged. He had frozen as if the slightest movement might make his head pop off and from the gaping void shoot out a column of effervescent rage, as if from a shaken bottle of Coca‑Cola.

The supervisor smiled at me, inviting me to speak.

“What do you think?”

When I tilted my head, my eyes fell on the back of a photograph’s frame on the desk. It probably displayed one of those orders that people like her would hang on a wall: “Smile. Give thanks. Be positive.” Or perhaps a close-up of herself, flashing her white smile like the model in some advertisement.

One misstep, and I would have let slip the words I desperately wanted to say. Even if this woman might excuse a serial killer, she’d still consider me a lost cause, and tomorrow I’d have no income to cover the rent.

“I’m good at ignoring things. I plan to come to the workshop, process my parts, and then go home. If I’m left in peace, I won’t cause any trouble.”

The supervisor rested an elbow on her folder and scratched an eyebrow.

“You know where you work. A stable job is a rare opportunity for people with your peculiarities. The outside world makes your life difficult enough without you fighting amongst yourselves. Focus on common behaviors and shared opinions, or simply ignore each other. I’m sure you can manage that.”

Héctor hurried out of the office first. As if we were competing in a race to the finish line, he bolted down the stairs as fast as his legs, neglected by exercise since high school, would allow.

I maneuvered between the tables with a weary gait. My arms and legs felt heavy, and my stomach churned with the discomfort I’d woken up with that morning. I climbed onto my stool at the work line. Christopher, his tone hinting at a question, addressed me, but all I could hear was the thunder of blood in my ears.

I waited, head bowed, for someone to activate the conveyor belt. I clung to the hope that the repetitive act of assembling or repairing a part would numb my mind, freeing me from intrusive thoughts. But Héctor was looking for a way to attack me. He was the type who thrived on conflict, while I craved hours of uninterrupted solitude. Héctor had cast me as nothing more than a punching bag, a target he could beat without consequence. My isolation made me a target. Although I’d once swallowed his barbs and hostility because he otherwise ignored me, now he would push me until they expelled me from the workshop, just as any organism expels a foreign object lodged in its flesh. I had to push him first.

Less than a year ago, when I first discovered this workshop, I assumed I’d belong among the broken and rejected. But even in such a place, or any gathering of broken people, they would end up treating me as a creature utterly inferior. They would eventually learn that I was camouflaging my true self, that I passed as whole, even though I knew I was a volatile explosive, ready to obliterate this workshop and the surrounding buildings with the slightest jolt.

-----

Author’s note: this novella was originally self-published in Spanish about ten years ago. It’s contained in the collection titled Los dominios del emperador búho.

The Scrap Colossus, Pt. 5 (Fiction)

[check out this part on my personal page, where it looks better]

What answer could I offer to Elena’s confession, that she harbored a malignancy in her blood from before she was potty-trained? Born with a curse, an unnamed darkness. Her experience isolated her from the untainted masses who befriended each other, dated, married. They lived in the sunlight. She could only hope to be understood by those who had begun to fathom the lonely truth: that they shared their brains with an autonomous alien no reins could hold. That one day, finding them feeble, the presence may claw its way through those spongy convolutions and jab a pen into some stranger’s eye for the sheer terror of it. Did she open up about her rot in hopes that I’d hold her pale, fine-boned hand and swear she’d be all right?

“By attending that course, you were trying to reach toward the light, weren’t you, Elena? Why else would someone that wary of the world put herself in the position of having to present her work to strangers whose minds would clash with yours? It was like throwing a shark in a fish tank. If you don’t mind me asking, and if you do mind answer me anyway because I want to know… why did you attend that class in the first place?”

Elena let her head fall back. The afternoon sun had emerged from the clouds and its warm glow bathed her face, making her eyelids droop, turning the depths of her pale-blue irises a crystalline hue. The breeze stirred her almond-blonde hair.

“Fuck if I know what I was thinking. Why did I attend that course indeed… Maybe I thought it would help me. Maybe I thought…” Her voice trailed off. Her eyes darted around anxiously. When she spoke again, it sounded like her throat had tightened and her words were being forced through a narrow gap. “Maybe I thought I’d find someone who experiences the world the way I do. Someone who doesn’t flinch away when you show them the ugly parts. But instead I got exactly what I should have expected: a roomful of wannabes more concerned with calling themselves writers than actually writing anything worthwhile. Who organized writer-themed dinners when they should’ve been down in the trenches, digging up words. So yeah, maybe I was reaching toward the light, as you poetically put it. But all I found was more proof that people like me don’t belong anywhere near normal society. Some stories need to stay in the darkness where they belong.”

Elena fixed her gaze on the school grounds across the river. On that building’s brick facade, swatches of faded paint—sun-bleached cyan, rust-red, and the ghostly remains of yellow and green—clung beneath the windows like dried blood. In my dreams, those walls loomed titanic, like a fortress of some long-dead civilization whose language was never deciphered. I had been condemned to waste half of my childhood in those repurposed ruins, while clueless adults drilled into my brain a curriculum I’d already begun to forget before the bell rang. Both Elena and I lived close enough to watch the light bleed from those fossilized bricks. We should have moved on by now.

I turned my head back to Elena, and I steadied her weary gaze as though I were holding up a feverish relative.

“You’re tough, Elena, and can survive on your own. Still, having been ousted from a creative writing course must have hurt like a motherfucker. But you did find one person drawn to your stories.”

Elena stared down at her hands, those fingers tracing the edges of the notebook. Her skin appeared even whiter against the charcoal-gray of the hoodie. The slump in her shoulders, the way her eyes avoided mine, betrayed a bone-deep exhaustion. She chuckled acidly.

“I can’t survive on my own… I can barely get out of bed in the morning without feeling like I’m dragging a corpse. Ah, somehow I can’t be bothered to put on a front for you. Jon, I don’t know what kind of connection you’re hoping to get from me. I don’t do small talk. I’m not on social media. I’m not a person you befriend, or who fits into other people’s lives. I’m not even a writer… I write the way someone sinking in a sand pit would scramble up the collapsing slope. To avoid being buried alive.”

“Darkness has its own society. So I propose the following: let’s get together from time to time. I’m interested in your writing, Elena, and in what you have to say about things. Let me be your connection to humanity.”

A flock of birds flew overhead. Their shadows swept over us, a momentary eclipse. Elena’s fingers tapped the cover of her notebook restlessly as her eyes searched mine for a hint of deception.

“Is that so? You want to read more of my stories, huh?”

“I do.”

“Fine. Here’s a story for you: once upon a time, there was a girl who wanted to be a writer. She dreamed of crafting tales that would move the world. But everytime she dared to share her words with others, she was met with indifference, scorn, or outright hostility. She poured herself into her writing, only to have it thrown back in her face. Eventually, the girl grew tired of being hurt. She realized that no matter how hard she tried, no one would understand. After all, no other creature like her existed in the whole wide world. So she decided to stop trying altogether. She burned all her notebooks, deleted all her files, and vowed never to write again.”

“That’s a sad story. It doesn’t have to end that way.”

Elena narrowed her shoulders, concealed her eyes behind her palm, and drew a deep, steadying breath.

“So you want to, what,” she started with a tremor in her voice, “meet up for coffee and critique sessions like we’re normal people who can just… connect?”

“Yeah, relate to each other like two human beings, or whatever we are, during the tragically short time we’re allowed to experience this universe. We could consider it an experiment. If it doesn’t work out, no big deal. At least it’ll serve as writing material, right?”

“Jon, my writing isn’t some entertainment package you can subscribe to. It’s not even art, really. It’s more like a disease that spreads through words across every page until there’s nothing but raw nerves and exposed bone. And now you want to meet up regularly to witness the carnage firsthand.”

“You’re making it sound better and better.”

The bells of Juncal Church tolled, and Elena turned her head toward their peals. Her pale-blue eyes first unfocused, then snapped toward me. It felt as if a relentless investigator had suddenly singled me out amidst a crowd.

“I’ve never met anyone so insistent on sticking around, even though I’m the last thing anyone should want to be stuck with.” She narrowed her eyes. “I’ll drag you down with me. Do you understand that?”

“Bring it on. Come hauling all the darkness you can carry.”

Elena shifted uneasily on the bench, her almond-blonde hair shimmering in the afternoon sun. As she tugged at her frayed sleeve cuff, her face tightened with anxiety, like she had to leap over a deep gap.

“Tearing myself apart on paper is the only way I know how to exist anymore, and the only reason I’m still alive. I’m not being hyperbolic or self-pitying. It’s a fact. If anything ruins it for me, I’m done.”

“I’ll be mindful.”

Elena bit her lower lip and stared up at me. She resembled a traveler lost in the wilderness, who’d stumbled upon a stranger and didn’t know whether to trust them. The tension in her shoulders eased. She reached beside her to pick up the carton of orange juice. She raised it to her lips and gulped, her throat bobbing. When she finished, she lowered the carton and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. A pale strand of her hair was stuck to the corner of her lip.

“Fine. I’m willing to give it a try. I’ll probably regret it, but… fuck it. I don’t know what else to do with my life. On my terms, though. I’ll text you when I’m in the mood to see you, and then… no bullshit. None of that social lubrication crap. I’m a fucking moth, not a butterfly. If you want to connect with me, you’ll have to do it on my wavelength. We’ll meet up when we have something to show each other, or to talk about something that’s not trivial. I’m not promising any friendship or even basic human decency. I’m not capable of that anymore. And remember, Jon… you’re the one who knocked on the door of a haunted house.”

“Clear as day.”

“If you turn out to be another asshole, or you betray me, I’ll fucking rip out your throat, okay?”

“Understood. Let’s exchange phone numbers.” When I shoved my hand into the right pocket of my jacket, plastic packaging crinkled under my fingers. I probed the tiny, solid shapes within. “Oh, I forgot about these. Catch.”

I pulled out the bag of M&Ms and tossed it onto Elena’s lap. She stared down at the cadmium-yellow packaging, then lifted it like a mouse by its tail.

“Candy? Really? Like I’m some child you can placate with sugar…”

“You’ve just consumed like a hundred grams of sugar with that orange juice. Keep the M&Ms and eat them whenever. Consider it a bribe. Or a symbolic offering.”

“Is this how you win over the girls you stalk? Pebbles and chocolate?”

“Only the ones who write like they’re trying to break a curse.”

Elena’s pale eyes flicked toward mine, the hint of a smirk playing on her lips. She shrugged.

“Whatever. Give me your number.”

She tucked the bag of M&Ms into her hoodie’s pocket, then reached into her joggers to take out a battered phone. She flipped it open, revealing a screen cracked along the edges. As I recited the digits of my phone number, Elena’s thumb tapped them in.

“I’ll send you a text,” she said. “Don’t spam me with memes and cat videos. I hate that shit. And no small talk. If you want to meet up, just ask.”

“I’ll be more direct than a rifle shot.”

“You’re going to regret this. When it comes to connections, I’m a nuclear reactor.”

Her thumb jabbed her phone’s keypad, and in response, my own device chimed and buzzed. My heart beat faster, as if I’d been handed the key that unlocked a secret passage to the underworld.

“I won’t regret it. In any case, I might send you links to songs I genuinely enjoy. You often understand people better through their tastes than by talking to them. Send me your own stuff if you feel like it. I’d love to find out what kind of music you’re into.”

She snapped her phone shut with a sharp clack, then stuffed it back into her pocket.

“The more I reveal to you, the more likely you are to realize what a colossal mistake you’re making by being in my life. But regarding music tastes, let me guess: you’re into that introspective indie-folk crap where some guy with a beard whines about his feelings over an acoustic guitar.”

I guffawed, throwing my head back, as if releasing built-up pressure. When my laughter subsided, Elena’s eyes, pale blue moons, had widened, and her lips parted. She stared at me as though I’d spoken an alien tongue.

“I’m a guy with a beard, and play the guitar. I’ve been known to head into the woods and offer the birds and the squirrels renditions of songs by Explosions in the Sky, Godspeed You! Black Emperor, The Velvet Underground…”

Elena’s eyebrows lifted.

“Post-rock? I wouldn’t have guessed that.”

“And yes, folksy stuff like Waxahatchee and Neutral Milk Hotel.”

“Well, don’t expect me to start sharing my favorite artist’s unreleased demos with you just because you bought me candy and defended me against that phony cunt.”

“Who is this mysterious artist?”

“None of your damn business. That said, I don’t close myself off from new music, as long as you don’t send me background noise for coffee shops. In turn, you may find yourself listening to songs that’ll make you want to jump off a bridge.”

“I could use the exercise. Anyway, I’ll let you return to your notebook. I hope to interact with you soon, at least through songs. Let’s make the darkness a little lighter. Take care, Elena.”

I started walking away from the bench toward the estuary, aware of the stare poking my back. Glancing over my shoulder, I caught sunlight weaving gold through her blonde hair, and the breeze rippling her hoodie. Her pale blues glinted with something fierce and untamed.

“Sure, make the darkness lighter,” she said wearily. “That’s how it works, right? Just strum a bridge across the void.”

-----

Author’s note: today’s songs are “The Mute” by Radical Face, and “Giving up the Gun” by Vampire Weekend.

On Writing: Scenes and Sequels

[check out this post on my personal page, where it looks better]

You can check out all my posts on writing through this link.

Without getting into complex structuring of a story (the act-based frameworks), you could produce a compelling story relying on a couple of alternating units: Scenes and Sequels.

I first came across the notion of Scenes and Sequels in Dwight V. Swain’s Techniques of the Selling Writer, which I read back when I was obsessed with writing technique. Jack M. Bickham expanded upon Swain’s notions in the book Scene and Structure, which I also recommend. The alternation of Scenes (action-driven) and Sequels (emotionally reflective), creates a rhythm of tension and resolution. Scenes drive plot; Sequels explore consequences.

A Scene is a unit of action where the protagonist pursues an immediate objective.

Goal: The character’s concrete, short-term aim (e.g., “Find the hidden map”).
-Why it works: goals anchor the reader and create stakes.

Conflict: Obstacles blocking the goal (e.g., a rival steals the map).
-Key detail: conflict should escalate through active opposition, not coincidence. It should be easy to determine if the conflict is meaningful: it should hinder the stated goal.

Disaster: A negative outcome forcing adaptation (e.g., the map is destroyed).
-Purpose: avoids static victories; ensures ongoing tension. The disaster need not be catastrophic: it might be unintended consequences (e.g., gaining the map but betraying an ally).
-It’s important to think of a disaster instead of plain resolutions, because a story should be composed of escalating tension. Setbacks help the story maintain momentum.
-Ideally, a Scene’s disaster answers the dramatic question proposed by the goal (e.g., “Will the protagonist find the hidden map?”) with a resounding “No.” However, there are variations: “No, and in addition…” as in not only the goal fails, but something gets even worse. The disaster could be a “Yes, but…” However, you should avoid concluding a Scene with a plain “Yes,” unless it’s only a temporary “Yes” that doesn’t let the reader know what bad stuff the disaster has triggered in the future.
-Each disaster should ideally worsen an overarching problem.

A Sequel processes the fallout of the previous scene’s disaster, focusing on inner turmoil.

Reaction: The character’s emotional response (e.g., despair, guilt).
-Function: humanizes characters: show vulnerability before resilience. Offers opportunity for character development, emphasizing how that character reacts in an idiosyncratic way. Developing the emotional reactions prevents the characters from appearing robotic.

Dilemma: A problem with no good options (e.g., trust a traitor or go alone?).
-Tip: dilemmas should test the values of the character or characters involved. Offers lots of opportunity for character development.
Dilemmas are often used to explore the story’s thematic questions (e.g., “Does ends justify means?”).

Decision: A new plan emerges (e.g., “Find the traitor and negotiate”).
-Critical nuance: the decision must logically lead to the next Scene’s goal.

Alternating Scenes (fast-paced) and Sequels (slower, introspective) creates rhythm. Thrillers use shorter Sequels; literary fiction may elongate them for depth. Each Sequel’s decision becomes the next Scene’s goal, creating a chain reaction. This prevents episodic storytelling. Note: a Scene can be followed by another Scene, particularly when the context is clear, but a Sequel should always be followed by a Scene.

Keeping in mind the notion of Scenes and Sequels helps enormously when outlining a story: they force you to think in terms of goals, conflict, dilemmas, and setbacks, which are the fundamentals of a satisfying story.

In addition, knowing you’re writing a Scene helps you understand when to start its narrative: as close to the statement of the goal as possible. For example, if the character wants to convince another character to do something, you can start with the first character engaging the second, without much preamble. This is generally called starting in medias res with the goal already in motion.

Scene and Sequel ensure narratives remain driven by cause-effect logic and emotional authenticity, keeping readers perpetually engaged in the “what happens next?”

Trash in a Ditch, Pt. 11 (Fiction)

[check out this part on my personal page, where it looks better]

Halfway to the workshop, I remembered the newspapers. The day before, at noon, I had ruminated about them, and that had convinced me I’d put the matter to rest, but today’s editions might report a child’s disappearance, or that a murderer was on the run. Should I veer around, go back to the city, and buy the local paper? Even though I pictured myself turning the wheel, in real life I was sliding a palm over my lips and chin as if probing for hair to pull. No, the afternoon shift would start in five minutes, and I was already struggling enough to focus on the assembly line.

I had flipped down the visor, but sunlight blurred the road as if a stun grenade had gone off and left me dazzled. My right cheekbone throbbed in a hot ache. Would I have to endure this peak of anxiety for the rest of my life? Is that what I’d condemned myself to by running over that boy—constantly fearing some microscopic clue, a hair, a speck of dandruff, or traces of blood, might betray me?

I parked by the fence of the empty lot next to the workshop, then got out of the car. An arid gust swept dust and blew across my bare face and arms like a hairdryer shaking itself. Dozens of workers had taken shelter from the sun under the workshop eaves, forming a colony of purple penguins.

Something must have slipped my mind. I went around to the trunk, where the sun burned a white hole. I inserted the key.

My heart pounded as if it had guessed I’d find an empty space. While I’d been eating, someone might have stolen the duffel bag, unzipped it, and upon discovering it contained a corpse, rushed to a police station.

When I lifted the lid, the trunk exhaled a breath of metal and floor mat mixed with the stench of feces and urine that might have sat in a toilet for a week. As I wrinkled my nose, I felt the outlines of the duffel bag. It held the solid shapes I expected.

And to the left of my hand, two tanned hands—short, slender fingers with dirt crusted under the nails—mirrored my movements. They ran their palms over the bag’s outlines until they found the zipper pull. They slid it open the way you’d peel off a bandage, and the zipper’s mouth parted to reveal bulges and folds of transparent plastic.

I blinked, rooted to the earth as if my bones had tangled with the soil. Caroline smelled like an animal that had walked in the sun for an hour. Some lumps and protrusions made the pockets of her coat bulge.

The woman tore the transparent plastic with her fingernails. A greenish skin emerged, covered by a slick membrane that had stuck to the plastic’s interior like mucus. The stench that escaped and crawled into my nostrils jolted me like a hammer blow. Caroline had slipped her hands around both sides of the wrapped corpse, peeling it away from the bottom of the duffel bag with a sound like a boot sinking into a swamp.

I grabbed the woman by her wrists. With a yank, I forced her to let go of the body and step back. I slammed the trunk shut, the bang echoing as if to alert every worker.

While pressing my palms against the scorching lid, I quickly scanned the yard and the workshop’s facade. Groups of workers were limping toward the entrance. A small whirlwind prowled the yard, rustling wrappers and cigarette butts.

A jolt of electricity rippled over my skin. My guts bothered me like I’d just ruined my digestion. I dared to face Caroline. To look at me, she swept aside a cascade of hair. Her dry, peeling lips had parted slightly.

I wanted to scold her for messing with my property, but the words slipped away once my shaky voice tried to release them. Caroline’s pupils gazed at me from inside two crystalline spheres. Compared to the vulnerability and transparency they evoked, every other pair of eyes I’d seen might as well have been just iris-and-pupil designs painted on wooden balls. The way she studied my face showed that she understood. She was examining me to figure out what kind of person would hide a child’s corpse.

My throat closed up. My neck quivered, begging me to look away. Like someone who’s spent a week locked in a reeking, dark cell and then stumbles on the light switch, I was blinded by the light. I had run over a boy, crushing him under my car’s wheels, then fled with his body. It felt so delirious I had to brace myself to keep from melting into a toxic puddle.

Caroline’s pupils alternated between focusing on my own and my cracked cheekbone. Her chest rose and fell in slow breaths.

When I opened my mouth, a stammer escaped.

“It was an accident.”

I was trying to muster some explanation that might justify me in Caroline’s eyes, in my own, so she’d stop seeing me as a monster. But the high-speed replay of me driving that night along the dirt road, of coming home with a corpse in the trunk, made any excuse seem absurd. An accident, Caroline might repeat. If it was an accident, why didn’t you call the police? I didn’t know. Who was this strange creature I was forced to be? A person hauling around the decomposing corpse of a child he’d killed, planning to dump it over the weekend like a swollen trash bag. Why hadn’t I realized during the night of the hit-and-run that what I was doing was wrong, just as I must have done wrong in countless moments?

I’d been invited to peer through someone else’s mind, someone who lived inside me and acted on my behalf, an enemy who hid from my attempts to understand him, and who might trick me into following any road I’d later want to walk back. Yet while that other “me” was in control, I felt in charge. How could I ever decide anything with certainty, knowing I’d reasoned that I should hide the child’s corpse? I needed to defend myself from this internal enemy, keep him away from everyone else.

Caroline slid her cascade of hair behind her ears, which flared out slightly. I had grown accustomed to women’s faces hidden behind layers of makeup, but on hers, craters from acne or chickenpox were scattered across her forehead, cheeks, and chin. A faint mustache showed on her upper lip. Caroline began to speak in a high-pitched voice, stringing together sounds resembling syllables. I felt like a blow had disabled my language center.

“I can’t understand you. I don’t recognize a single word.”

She fell silent, then stepped away from the trunk and studied the corpse through the lid for a few seconds. As if content with whatever conclusion her broken mind cobbled up, she flowed around the car like some aquatic creature, heading toward the workshop. Caroline rummaged in a pocket and pulled out some scrap. While she examined it with her head bowed, she slipped between two groups of workers and disappeared into the workshop’s shadows.

My legs gave out. I leaned against the trunk lid, which groaned under my weight. Why would I peel myself off this blistering metal?

My mind tried to exile part of itself, as though slicing the brain in half. Was this how others saw me? I understood why they’d avoid me, treat me with hostility. If only I could get away from myself. But I would never become anyone other than who I was born.

The workshop horn blared, summoning us to come inside. I straightened up and dragged myself across the yard. My feet seemed ready to turn themselves inside out. Why was I staying there, now that someone knew I was hiding a child’s corpse? It felt like I’d been bitten by a black widow—thinking I’d survive only because I hadn’t collapsed yet. But it would happen. And if Caroline hadn’t found out, someone else would have.

When I entered the workshop, the lighting affected me as if candles had been replaced by halogen lamps. I followed the path between the lines to my station. The purple backs, the brown veined wood of the tables, and the gray rubber of the conveyor belts—unshaded now that my tinted lenses weren’t blocking them—took on vibrant colors as though an expressionist painter had recreated them.

My neck had gone stiff, and I avoided lifting my head. At any moment I might burst into spontaneous combustion, leaving only a heap of ashes and a single foot inside its sock and shoe.

When I reached the line and climbed onto my stool, the stares of the three men stung my face. Héctor, facing me, was frowning, and to the right Christopher and John—or Joseph—were peering at me as if a player on their team had just gotten injured.

Ah, the dead eye. Without my glasses hiding that ruin, the novelty horrified them.

“I lost them.”

Héctor let out a derisive snort.

“Losing your glasses gave you that black eye?”

I touched my cheekbone, and a flare of pain lit up the mesh of nerves interlaced with the ones that had died when shrapnel pierced them.

A black hand settled on my right shoulder. Christopher, standing beside me, squeezed my shoulder to offer comfort.

I tensed. I opened my mouth to tell him to remove his hand, to say he should have asked permission first, but that would lead to more questions and complaints.

“Do you need a break?” Christopher said. “Go home. The three of us can handle this afternoon’s workload.”

Héctor dropped his screwdriver, which clattered against the table. He shook his head.

“Great. More work for us because you were a bastard to someone who didn’t take it well.”

My mind seethed in a static of white noise. Their attention squeezed me like the bars of a shrinking cage. If only I could swat every question and comment with a flyswatter so these people would shut up and leave me alone.

I lifted Christopher’s hand off my shoulder and set it aside. I sat up straight on my stool, then pressed the button that switched on the conveyor belt, which started rolling with the hum of cylinders and the friction of rubber.

“What happened is my business alone. Let’s just run this fucking line.”

-----

Author’s note: this novella was originally self-published in Spanish about ten years ago. It’s contained in a collection titled Los dominios del emperador búho.

Today’s songs are “Climbing Up the Walls” by Radiohead, and “Angel” by Massive Attack.

The Scrap Colossus, Pt. 4 (Fiction)

[check out this part on my personal page, where it looks better]

The afternoon sun lit up fine strands of Elena’s almond-blonde hair, and accentuated her high cheekbones with a warm luster. Sunlight glinted off her eyes, pale and unblinking like winter moons. She usually looked away as if evading the intimacy, but now her gaze was burrowing into my pupils. I glimpsed a heart full of broken glass. Elena could make anyone wonder if they’d been sleepwalking through life before she appeared.

A breeze from the estuary—laden with a briny tang and the pungent odor of rotting seaweed—rustled the leaves of the plane tree overhead, and fluttered Elena’s hair. She tucked errant strands behind her ear, then shook her head softly.

“You quit because of me?” The hint of a reluctant smirk tugged at her lips, a glimmer of mischief in her weary gaze. “What was the point? Just to spite that phony cunt?”

“Isabel was out of line. She had no business attacking you like that.”

Elena’s fingers tightened around her notebook. She let out a slow exhale, releasing tension.

“That’s… Look, I don’t need anyone following my lead like I’m some twisted pied piper of misery. I’m used to that kind of treatment. I’ve had a lifetime of people thinking I’m fucked-up. My parents. Teachers. Classmates. Coworkers. Therapists. Like you, I was already on my way to quitting that writing course. It’s done, I don’t care anymore. Isabel can be queen of the idiots. Let’s get back to you, Jon, who claims to be fascinated by my work. Do you get off on watching someone else’s darkness spill out? Because let me tell you something… it isn’t performance art. I write for myself.”

A passing cyclist, a girl in her twenties, shot us a curious glance as she whirred by on a pink beach cruiser, her brunette, ponytailed hair streaming.

“I’m drawn to darkness myself, as you are. Well, I shouldn’t say ‘drawn.’ It’s not like darkness floats around and you gravitate toward it, right? No, in truth you’re sitting at the bottom of a well, engulfed in darkness. From time to time you dare to look up at the distant circle of light. But you know that no matter how high you jump, that light will never touch you. So you stop trying to reach the light and instead you describe your surroundings, to paint a portrait of the darkness you’ve lived with for so long. Someone else in a dark well of their own might read what you wrote and feel less alone.”

As Elena’s pale fingers twisted the metal coils along the spine of her notebook, she chewed on her lower lip. She met my eyes directly, her stare haunted.

“Are you always so melodramatic?” she asked in a hollow voice. “Is that the amateur writer in you?”

A sigh escaped her. She leaned forward and rested her elbows on her thighs, her chin cradled in her palm. Those pale blues tracked the lazy arc of a gliding gull, wings outstretched against the cloudy sky. When Elena spoke, her voice carried an eerie calm, a sense of resignation.

“You were in class, weren’t you, when Isabel placed on the whiteboard the vibrant, drawn close-up of a girl’s face, whose big, round eyes stared at the butterfly resting on the tip of her nose? She tasked us to write an impromptu piece inspired by that image. While the other students, including you, hunched over their notebooks, scribbling away, I sat there frozen for half of the allotted time, because I could only picture a girl chained to a wall in a dark cellar, eating that butterfly to survive. I tried to think of something else, I really did. But my mind is a radio receiver tuned to a single frequency. I felt that a thin sheet of glass separated me from the normal people in that room, and against the glass pressed a wriggling mass of blackness I couldn’t let them see. But in the end, I wrote it down. The girl eating the butterfly. When I read it to the class, I felt the weight of their stares like I had sprouted tentacles. Remember Isabel’s face?”

“I was looking at you.”

Elena rubbed the back of her neck.

“She looked like she’d swallowed a bug. Her expression said it all: I had committed a sacrilege. I had taken a beautiful thing, pure and innocent, and defiled it. Isabel didn’t understand how anyone could look at that picture and not feel inspired to write something wholesome. But that’s how my brain works. If I had to write a story about Isabel finding love in a coffee shop, it would end up with her head in a blender.” Elena slumped back against the bench, slid the pen into the notebook, then closed the pages around it. She plucked at the frayed edge of her hoodie’s sleeve. “Hey, listen to this one. I must have been twelve. My parents had dragged me to some family gathering. There was this supposed cousin, right? Maybe fifteen. Sunday dress, knee-high socks. I think her father owned a business. Anyway, she approached me, the girl who had spent the entire afternoon hunched over her notebook, avoiding everyone, bored out of her skull. This cousin, she had a bright, bubbly smile as she grabbed my notebook and read a sentence aloud: ‘The only interesting thing about you ran down your mother’s thighs after she fucked your dog.'”

“Jesus. What the fuck was the context?”

Her pupils dilated slightly, the pale blue ringed with something feral, before she looked away.

“Long forgotten. In any case, her smile died. Instant fulmination. She dropped the notebook and walked away. Never spoke to me again. Can’t blame her. But think about that, Jon. What the hell did I know of cum at twelve that would make the sentence meaningful? I hadn’t even had my period yet.” She pulled down her hood, then raked her blonde hair back with splayed fingers. “And you know what? I read some of the stuff I wrote when I was nine fucking years old. It would have made A Clockwork Orange blush. Who taught me that shit? Who put it into me? No internet back then. I can tell you it didn’t come from my parents. The point is, as a little girl, my mind was already a sewer. Born with a brain full of maggots. And now I write stories that make people want to hurt me. Isabel was right: I am a freak. Even my own mother can barely look me in the eyes.”

“I can handle that.”

“Can you, now?” Elena asked, her voice strained, brittle. “I don’t think anyone can, in the end. Maybe not even me. Maybe especially not me.” She looked up with the gaze of someone crushed under a collapsed wall, who knows no help will come, yet still won’t die. “A dark thing’s living in me, Jon. It’s always been there.”

-----

Author’s note: today’s song is William Griffin’s “The Devil Inside My Throat,” from the album Odes to My Triceratops, Vol. 2 (hey, remember when I produced like seventy songs?).

Life update (01/29/2025)

[check out this post on my personal page, where it looks better]

Ever since I started writing my new novel, The Scrap Colossus, that my basement girl urged me to work on, I’ve been waking up regularly at one to three in the morning, often struggling to fall asleep later. My dreams are extremely vivid; although I forget them upon waking, I remember traveling through tremendously detailed environments, meeting people I had never met before, and having coherent dialogues with them. Of course, dreams are a mystery. I have a hard time believing that the human brain is capable of sustaining such internally coherent worlds for hours every night; I wouldn’t be surprised if we actually connect to something, some other plane of reality. In any case, the increased vividness of my dreams, how I wake up spontaneously with ideas ready to be noted down, and the rest of the time I feel immersed in a somewhat oniric state, they are a testament to the fact that my brain allows my subconscious to flow mostly unimpeded at the moment, which is the best possible state of being.

Basement girl regularly knocks on the ceiling to share meaningful moments for the new novel, which I hurry to write in my growing document of material (131,839 words as of now). Recently she had been struggling to connect both storylines (the one about Elena writing her novel, and the novel-within-the-novel involving the stand-in for a certain songwriter I was obsessed with); she proposed alternatives that never quite gelled. But earlier today, as I peed at work, minutes away from sitting with my serrano ham sandwich and reading a bit more of Cormac McCarthy’s Suttree, my basement girl had an eureka moment and hurriedly painted a vivid daydream of how the climaxes of both storylines should merge. Obviously I can’t be specific, but the point is that the major hurdles to develop this novel have been overcome thanks to my beloved girl’s tireless work, and now I can write each scene at my leisure while tinkering with the architecture from time to time.

Artificial intelligence has been, unsurprisingly, very useful. As I improve my structure, that includes the detailed summary and purpose of each scene, I ask either OpenAI’s Orion 1 or DeepSeek’s R1 to offer constructive criticism, trying to determine the weak points. AI is “objective” (of course, each company tries to inject their own ideological bias into their AI), but asking AI for criticism solves the issue of requiring a human being to criticize your stuff, which they would almost invariably half-ass to avoid getting into arguments or hurting your precious feelings. I regularly involve AI in my interactive erotica, so I know it’s quite comfortable with being rough.

Anyway, the worst part of having regained my creative stride is definitely having to work for a living. I should be at my writing desk. But at least my job computer includes an internet connection, so I can rearrange my notes and work on development further.

Hope you’re enjoying my new story, whoever the hell you are. Yes, you. I’m right behind you. In any case, my tale is a bit of a hard sell, but it’s not like I write for others. I’m sure at least one person will get something valuable out of it.

Trash in a Ditch, Pt. 9 (Fiction)

[check out this part on my personal page, where it looks better]

The horn signaled our lunch break. In the locker room, I took off my work coat and gloves. When I collapsed onto the bench, my pants fused with the wood. Behind me, other workers wandered around, chatting and laughing. The rustle of clothes. Lockers slamming shut.

I braced my elbows on my thighs. Was it worth driving to Wendy’s? I’d be surrounded by another crowd, but of strangers who couldn’t care less that I existed. They’d ignore me.

I closed my eyes and painted a composite portrait of all the times I’d spied on that woman. With her face and body, she could strut around naked without anyone finding fault. The memory unleashed my imagination, and in those intervals, I convinced myself I inhabited another body, that I’d been born as a different man—someone a pain-free woman could have loved without shame.

I stepped out into the patio’s parched air. The gazes of some workers, as they held sandwiches or lunchboxes, led me toward Caroline. The flare of her dress spun into a spiral, and before it fell, another twist sent it rippling, offering glimpses of her tanned and scarred legs. Rising onto her tiptoes, she flowed, paused, and flowed again in a drunken ballet. In flashes, her luminous features peeked through her disheveled hair. Caroline grinned like a little girl on Christmas morning, clutching the bronze horse to her sternum with both hands.

I passed by the woman. When I opened my car door to let the inside cool down, the scorching frame burned my fingertips, which pulsed in a red halo.

Caroline had drifted to one side of the workshop, under the watchful eyes of the workers standing in the eave’s shade. She ran her hands over the sculpture’s peaks and curves—its mane captured mid-fling, its ribs, its galloping legs. She crouched beside the fence, set the horse on her thigh, and rooted among blades of grass, faded cans, and cigarette butts, like a lottery winner who buys another ticket minutes after winning.

I got into the car. I closed the door, stirring the hot, stagnant air. I was smiling. My lips went slack, and I glanced around to figure out if anyone had noticed.

I started the engine and drove away from the workshop. For a few minutes there was a prickling in my chest, like I’d scrubbed off part of the sludge that was choking my insides.

I reached the Wendy’s parking lot and, although plenty of spaces were free, I parked between two trucks whose trailers blocked the view like walls. Working the line had convinced me I was rid of the nausea, but when I killed the engine, I had to press my forehead against the steering wheel and take a deep breath. Any wrong movement would make vomit surge up my throat, so I waited a couple of minutes while my tongue sloshed in stale saliva.

The nausea eased. As if to demand my attention, my guts growled. I’d driven to Wendy’s; I might as well exploit the opportunity.

I followed a group entering the restaurant, using them as a screen so nobody would notice I was searching for the woman. As if reflected in a mirror, I imagined myself skulking like a vulture. Hispanics, whites, and blacks—workers and civilians—roamed the Wendy’s in shorts and T-shirts or tank tops. They threaded between tables as if they owned the place, while I had to apologize for existing.

The woman stood out like a diamond tossed in the mud. She’d braided her hair. The table hid her from the waist down, but she wore a corset-like top that fit her like a bra, and in the accentuated cleft of her breasts, perspiration gleamed.

Her boyfriend sat across from her, his back to me. He wore yesterday’s hat and a plaid shirt.

I joined the line at the counter, and as I stood impatiently, I sneaked glances at the empty table I’d occupy three spots from the couple. The people ahead of me waited for trays of burgers, fries, and drinks. Whenever they gestured and talked to each other, whenever they squeezed by behind me on their way to their seats, you could hear the jingling of the chains binding them to one another, to their friends, to their partners, to their families, to their jobs, to their political parties, to their sports teams. In their minds, layer upon layer formed a filter. Water could pass through, but the filter blocked impurities and gold alike; the gold got trapped, congealing with the grime. These civilians thought only what their attachments allowed, and for decades they’d kept themselves from knowing what they barred from their awareness. They’d honed their brains to lie to themselves about their worth and their prospects. That made them better servants of their genes, which existed only to reproduce. The human body was a supernumerary cell grown to obscene proportions. The corrosive, cannibalistic consciousness it spawned hid everything ugly and unpleasant, anything that harmed it, so each individual could march toward a future that would never arrive.

By the time it was my turn to order, my gut had gone cold. I felt enveloped in the viscous atmosphere of a tropical cave thriving with moss and fungi.

I sat at my table and unwrapped my burger. The boyfriend, left cheek propped on his left fist, lifted lettuce leaves to his mouth. His posture suggested that an afternoon of overtime waited at the office. The woman scrolled her phone with a thumb while toying with the end of her braid.

Aside from the blonde goddess, there were more couples scattered around. Some men looked mentally stable, maybe decently employed, but I could usually spot drunks, abusers, and similar losers with worse jobs than mine. They all ended up with a woman on their arm. Did any woman who glanced at me just see a throbbing lump of pus?

Strangers strolled around. They searched for open tables or emptied their trays into the trash. Two workers chattered while smiling instinctively, but when their gazes landed on me, the smiles vanished as though I’d threatened to kill them. They changed direction to avoid passing near me. Even if their conscious minds remained clueless, their subconscious minds understood. That wariness, along with other skills, had helped humankind evolve off the savannah. Their instincts recognized the rotten and kept them away.

I had killed a child. A child alive until he crossed the path in front of my car, and I’d been driving down that dirt road in the middle of the night because I was sick. People could smell it, that sickness. It oozed from my pores like tar. That’s why I rarely lasted a year in any job: I belonged to a different species. I was a beast dressed as a human.

The boyfriend stood and made his way across the restaurant to the bathroom. This was the highlight of my day, the little bracket of time in which, behind my tinted lenses, I could savor each sight of the woman, unbothered by interruptions.

She toyed with her phone while projecting that flamingo-pink lower lip like a red apple begging to be plucked from its stem. She wrinkled her nose, pressed the middle knuckle against her nostrils and shrugged, her features scrunching as if about to sneeze. She relaxed and rubbed her nose. When she pulled her hand away, she kept the palm facing up while rummaging in her purse. She came up empty. She glanced furtively around. Then, as though grabbing the table to slide her chair back, she wiped her soiled hand on one of the table legs.

I bit my burger just to fill my stomach, but it tasted foul, and every mouthful that sank into my stomach churned my discomfort. I should have stayed back at the workshop, in the locker room. It seemed idiotic that dozens of us came to Wendy’s daily, only to head back to jobs that wasted our hours. How many of these workers were living on pure inertia? Everyone got one shot, and if you’d failed by thirty, you should quit—save yourself from the pain and indignity of the decades of decline ahead. Past that age, humans rotted like overripe fruit, sliding down the chute toward disintegration. Children, teens, and twentysomethings lived out the promised life before they could even appreciate it. Those over thirty existed to raise the next generation and keep it going until it could fend for itself, but I had tricked nature and the odds, and I survived alone. How would I have brought another victim into this farce? Other human refuse found some solace in barren relationships, but I was desperate to escape. I wanted my time to pass with the least possible pain.

Thirty-seven. I should have died in a blaze of glory among explosions and bullet whistles, leaping that low wall to gun down the bearded savages on the other side. I would have emptied my M16 and taken someone out before their AK-47s riddled my torso. I would have avenged the insult my existence inflicted on nature. But I had returned home. My heart kept beating, refusing to ask why it bothered. And another workday waited to bury the certainty of my obsolescence under the roar of machines and conveyor belts.

A wave of sickly cold shuddered through me. I wiped the sweat from my forehead, and when I closed my eyes, images played across the inside of my eyelids. Soldiers in Interceptor body armor carrying M16s advanced around me. Explosions kicked up clouds of dust. Sitting in the passenger seat of a Humvee, I heard that first lieutenant praying from the back seat whenever automatic fire intensified in the distance.

I leaned over the table, took off my sunglasses, and buried my face in my hands while stifling a groan. Every day I avoided new sights; I feared something vile might lodge in my mind and ambush me, day or night, for the rest of my life. Whenever the foulness visited me, I’d tremble, double over, lose my breath. As my mind waded through darkness, those memories detonated like torpedoes, and one day the battered hull would finish flooding and sink to the depths. I needed to erect walls around myself, all while condemning each impulse and decision that let this plague of images, sounds, smells, and tastes infest me.

I put on my sunglasses again and took a deep breath. I wolfed down a handful of fries so their salty taste would wash away the flavor of rot in my mouth.

I had wasted too many years searching for my place in this world of humans whose customs and ideals baffled me. I lacked the disposition and resources to love someone, even though the need remained. A jailer opened a skylight that poured light into my cell and showed a bright landscape, but he only opened it to remind me I’d never set foot on that grass outside. I knew the tar filling humanity. I had to stay on guard, always ready to block and counter each attack. People without those drives or insights could love others, but I recognized the predators and scavengers. Every glued-on smile was a flashy warning of venom, like the gaudy colors of a tropical fish.

Was my obsession with this woman love? It was tough to pin down those impulses. Like a lion, I needed a female who would barely resist. Then, I’d lie down and sleep. I lacked the skill and taste for trickery, the art of persuasion, that might lead a woman to follow me somewhere and undress. I was left with memories of the women who’d entranced me. Maybe those were enough—one gasp of air before diving into the abyss.

No, there was another piece missing. Plenty of the men sharing this break at Wendy’s appreciated their lives even though they had no stable job, although they might be shunned even more than I was, but they believed that the lives they enjoyed, and the futures they imagined, were worth the pain of living them. They were made of different stuff. Eating, dealing with people, small victories at work—those would unleash a chemical storm in their brains, making the effort tolerable. Did they cringe at noise? Did sorrow hurt them less? Did unpredictable people drive them up the wall? Did they despair at the fact everything ends in decay? Did they realize we scurried like fleas on a speck of dust drifting through a cold, black universe—that from a human’s first to last breath is but an atom in a drop in an ocean of time?

My mind rose from its dark chamber. The woman had leaned sideways to stare at me with her lips slightly parted. Two furrows mirrored each other between her eyebrows. Across from her, the boyfriend had an arm hooked over the back of his seat, his gaze lining me up, poised to fire.

I choked down a swell of nausea. My chair scraped backward on the floor as I stood. I gathered my wrappers onto the tray. I slipped outside, passing the cabs of a line of trucks, when a man’s voice, sharp as a blade, called out to me. I stopped and turned around.

The boyfriend had tipped his hat back as if to widen his view. His left hand was buried in that pocket, his right hand swinging in a clenched fist with each step. Two strides from me, he halted. His ballerina-like girlfriend stopped two steps behind.

-----

Author’s note: this novella was originally self-published in Spanish about ten years ago. It’s contained in a collection titled Los dominios del emperador búho.

Today’s song is “Creep” by Radiohead (also this live version).